Sanctuary
by dcfg21
Summary: Harry's life is taking a turn for the worse. He's left the Aurors, he's being portrayed as a vicious and abusive lover by a vindictive ex-boyfriend, and is being second-guessed by his friends. He prides himself on control, but now he needs some time to regroup and figure out where his life should go from here. Leave it to a freak Apparition to throw that off course.
1. Chapter 1

"I wish you would rethink this, mate. I really do," Ron says, and the imploring look on his face makes Harry almost want to reconsider.

Almost.

Harry shakes his head with resignation. "No. I'm finished with the Aurors. They've made it clear where they stand, and I won't budge over a personal issue that has no bearing on how I do my job." He smears a finger across the condensation on his pint glass and sighs. "And even if they came back around, I don't think I can go back. It's about principle now."

"He's right, Ron," Hermione says, although her tone implies an unspoken 'you should have known' somewhere beneath the words. Her eyes are crinkled at the corners, always indicative of displeasure. She's crinkly at him more often than not these days, and frankly, Harry's stopped trying to figure out what he's done wrong. He thinks wrestling a greased Kneazle into a post box would give him less trouble.

Ron huffs into his Firewhiskey. "And what about Owen, eh? It's his bloody fault you're in this mess to begin with."

Right. And here it comes. Owen.

"This isn't about Owen," Hermione snaps before Harry has a chance to. She glares at him, and Harry knows full well she doesn't believe it. This is _all_ about Owen and their failed relationship, and how it looks for the Ministry to have an Auror who engages in less than respectable sexual practices and isn't the least bit bothered by it on their payroll. He's heard the whispers. He knows what people think even if they won't say it to his face.

It's not the first time his sexuality has been on trial, Merlin knows. When he first came out as gay, the resulting backlash took almost a year to die down. And then when Owen came forward to the Prophet with his tell-all article on quote, "the Dark Side of Our Saviour", all hell broke loose. No one cared that Owen Redfield was a consenting partner to their bedroom activities, merely that the Great Harry Potter was a dominating top with a demanding streak. Of course the Prophet and the scheming Rita Skeeter would pounce on the opportunity to make Owen out to be an abused lover rather than the self-serving, Galleon-grubbing jackass that he is.

What doesn't help matters is the softly patronizing shake of Hermione's head and Ron's pinched glare of disappointment.

Hypocrites.

Harry full well knows they like their handcuffs fuzzy and pink with a quick release; Harry likes his with a bite and a beg. As for Owen—Harry should have spotted his game a mile off. The kind of sub that likes the game only when it suits them. And the only things about their game that suited Owen were Harry's fame and the contents of his vaults. But he hit every almost every one of Harry's weak points. Tall, aristocratic, with a gorgeous body that pinked up beautifully under the sting of a riding crop, and an eager willingness to submit.

Too eager. That should have been his first clue. A true sub would have made Harry work for his submission, to prove himself worthy of such a gift. He snapped his fingers and Owen jumped. Too easy.

Harry sighs again. It's probably just as well. A lasting relationship seems to be permanently out of his reach.

"It doesn't really matter if it's about Owen or not," Harry says. "I've made my decision." He takes a long gulp from the glass, draining it and slamming it onto the table. "And apparently, the Ministry has made theirs. It's done. I'm not going back."

Ron looks flummoxed across the table, spluttering an incoherent protest. After a moment of Harry and his wife both glaring at him, he manages to find his words. "So what will you do now?"

Harry shrugs. He hasn't thought that far ahead, but thinking about it now, an idea springs to mind. "You remember last summer when I went to Spain?" Ron nods. "Well, I spent quite a bit of time there at some of the local galleries. I've painted a fair bit in my off time, and I really enjoyed it. Maybe that's what I'll do."

Ron's eyes go wider than he's ever seen. "Paint?" The question is fraught with incredulity. "You're going to chuck it all and paint?"

Harry slumps back in the booth. "Yeah, why not? I've got nothing else to do with my time. And I'm pretty good. Maybe I'll open a gallery, feature my own work as well as some local artists. You know Luna's got her hands in with her sculptures. They're not bad," he says, nodding to himself. "I think they'd sell."

"But Harry," Hermione cuts in, "you don't really need the money." He hears the unspoken 'so why would you waste your time?'.

"True," he concedes. "But by your logic, then I don't really need the paycheck from the Auror department either."

Her lips pinch together. She doesn't like to be called out. Never has.

Their silence and disapproval is palpable, and to be honest, he is far more than a little tired of it.

He grabs his coat. "I appreciate your concern, but honestly, it isn't necessary. I'll figure out something. I just need some space to do that."

"Harry," Ron says, and the deep undercurrent of warning rubs Harry the wrong way. "You're making a mistake."

Harry can feel the muscles in his face tense, and the unconscious clench of his teeth tell him he's close to saying something he'll regret. He takes a deep breath and slides out of the booth to stare them both down.

"Maybe it is a mistake. But it's mine to make, not yours."

"We just want what's best for you," Hermione pipes in.

"No," Harry replies, shaking his head. "You want me to do what _you_ think is best for me. You've never trusted me to make the right decision." He opens his mouth to say something else, but snaps it shut at the last moment. "I'll owl you in a week or so."

With that, he leaves the pub and heads out onto the street, and slips into his coat. He's only got one arm in before the sound of reporters barrels down on him. A crowd of them are at the end of block, running toward him, shouting.

"_Mr. Potter? Are the rumors true? Have you left the Aurors?"_

"_Does it have anything to do with Owen Redfield's tell-all to the Prophet?"_

"_Is there any truth to the allegations of you being an abusive lover?"_

"_Will you be taking legal action?"_

"_Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter!"_

Harry turns, ready to stand his ground, but something unclenches in his chest, and he knows he's not ready to face them. Not now, possibly not ever.

Maybe Hermione was right, and he should have known, but it doesn't seem to make any sort of difference now. He wants some space to think. He wants to be left alone. He wants peace and quiet. He wants a haven to be himself. He wants—

"_SANCTUARY!"_

The cry rips out of him before he can stop it, and between one breath and the next, the pull of Apparition whisks him away.

00000

Harry hates Apparition as much as he hates Floo travel. A fact made plain as he crumples to the floor on what appears to be a very expensive rug. A rug he's never seen before. Certainly not one at Grimmauld.

Two audible gasps catch his attention, and Harry forces his gaze to focus on his surroundings.

Dead ahead, he sees a pair of lovely bare feet sticking out from beneath black trousers with a fraying hem. He's never used 'lovely' to describe feet before, but these warrant it. Long, slim, with perfectly formed toes, graceful, high arches, and the hint of shapely ankles. His eyes travel further upward to take in the point of a wand, pointed directly at his face. From the wand his gaze settles firmly on the flushed and startled face of Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy.

It feels as though the air is sucked from his lungs. Malfoy's mouth is open in a slight pant, and the collar of his white shirt is gaping at his collarbone, and Harry can see the flush from his cheeks has spread lower, pinking him up all over. The sight goes straight to Harry's groin.

Malfoy's got that wand trained on him, but it's not Malfoy's wand, Harry knows, because Harry's still got it in a box under his bed at Grimmauld. This is one of those throwaway Ministry affairs given to parolees, a weak stick that doesn't do shit except for basic household spells. But Malfoy's face is set, holding that useless piece of wood like he would AK someone with it if he could, his body set into a defensive stance, with one hand reaching back behind him as if to shield another body. His mother's.

Narcissa Malfoy is just as shocked as her son, eyes wide and surprised, body pressed close to Malfoy's.

It touches him, deep down, to see Malfoy standing there, all front and bravado, ready to defend his mother from wayward ex-Aurors who have suddenly lost the ability to not spontaneously Apparate. Malfoy, the ex-Death Eater, with his perfect feet, worn trousers, and no-good wand. Malfoy, looking delectably pink and flustered. Malfoy, who, in this moment, is the most gorgeous thing Harry thinks he's ever seen. It's absolutely ludicrous. And of course, because Malfoy is the git that he is, he has to ruin it by opening his spiteful mouth to snarl, "What the bloody fuck, Potter?'

He can't help it. Harry laughs. Braces his hand on the ridiculously expensive wool rug and laughs. He rises to his feet, shaking his head. He grins despite himself, and is quite satisfied by the glare he receives from Malfoy in turn.

"Malfoy," he says, drawing in a deep breath to stifle the laughter, "I honestly have no idea."


	2. Chapter 2

Naturally, it's Narcissa Malfoy that is the first among them to recover. She steps out from behind her son in a whisper of black silk, her skirts rustling as she moves into view.

"Mr. Potter," she says, casual as you please, her right hand slipping atop Malfoy's with a gentle nudge. Malfoy drops his arm a second later. "What an unexpected surprise." Her voice is crisp and breathless, with a hint of wariness around the edges. "I wasn't aware of a scheduled Auror visit, or have we reverted back to impromptu inspections? Although I must say, even on those visits we said our greetings at the front door."

Her words are so painstakingly polite, so devoid of scorn, yet somehow her calm smile makes him feel like a Crup who's shit on her favorite rug. His spine snaps straight, lest she chide him for slouching in her presence.

Harry gives her a formal bow, one he's worked hard to perfect in the past few years, along with the rest of his carriage. He's found that formality and confidence work wonders outside the bedroom as well. "My sincerest apologies for the intrusion, Mrs. Malfoy. I can assure you my presence has nothing to do with the Auror department or your terms with the Ministry." He straightens and offers her a deprecating smile. "I resigned my post two days ago. I am no longer an Auror."

"Then how the bloody fucking hell did you get through the wards, Potter?" Malfoy's voice is a barely controlled growl.

His mother's face scowls as she snaps at him, "Language, Draco."

Malfoy looks only slightly chastised as he shoots Harry a glare and huffs off to plop in a chair near the fireplace, bare feet stomping the whole way.

Mrs. Malfoy gestures to the over-stuffed sofa. "Please, do sit down."

Harry does as she asks without really thinking about why, because it's suddenly hit him again that he's in a sitting room at Malfoy Manor. With Narcissa and Draco Malfoy. And Malfoy's bare feet. Sitting is suddenly imperative.

He's barely sunk down into the soft cushions when a house-elf pops in, her long ears festooned with large, bright yellow bows, as if she was instructed to appear the moment a guest's arse hit the upholstery.

"Miss Cissa is needing tea for her guest?" The house-elf curtsies with a flair. The frothy ruffles on her equally yellow dress bob with her movement. Harry tamps down the urge to smile at the ridiculous sight she presents.

"Yes, Blinky, tea would be lovely. Thank you."

Harry catches Malfoy's eye over Blinky and her garish yellow ensemble as she pops back in to set up her tea cart, and he wants to grin, by Merlin, does he want to grin, because Malfoy's face is priceless. Blinky and her voluminous clothing are outlandish even by the strangest of house-elf standards, Harry knows that. And he knows Malfoy does, too. But the stubborn git can't be relaxed about it. Malfoy's mother has a fond expression on her face as Blinky does her due diligence, pouring tea and doling out finger sandwiches with the happiest of aplomb, all the while flipping those outrageous ruffles around. She swings by him so fast to place a tea cup in his hand that one of those massive bows nearly smacks him in the face. It's so utterly laughable, and yet Malfoy sits in his chair, lips pinched together, with his chin so high Harry wonders if it's going to permanently strain his neck, completely unwilling to crack the tiniest of smiles. Malfoy's whole posture screams 'so what if the house-elf is barmy – fuck off'. If Malfoy's testament to maintain control wasn't so admirable, Harry would burst out laughing on the spot.

"Now," Mrs. Malfoy says, after taking a delicate sip of her tea, "why don't you start at the beginning and tell us why exactly you're here, Mr. Potter."

Harry takes a tentative sip from his teacup, deciding how to explain the situation, especially since he's not really sure himself what happened. "I don't know," he says with a rueful, but respectful smile. After all, he did end up arse over tit on her sitting room rug. "Nothing like this has ever happened to me, but honestly, I can't be surprised by all the strange things that happen to me anymore."

"Yes," she replies, "you've led an interesting life so far, I'd say."

Malfoy tuts from his chair. "'Interesting' is a mild way of putting it, Mother."

Harry puts his teacup down and shrugs. "I've learned to take things in stride these days."

Mrs. Malfoy glances from her son, who suddenly finds the ceiling extremely interesting, back to Harry. "What were the exact circumstances before you Apparated?"

Harry nestles back into the sofa, spreading an arm across the back to get more comfortable. Malfoy's eyes track every smooth movement. "I'd just left the pub after meeting Ron and Hermione. I was outside, on the street, putting my jacket on, and a swath of reporters was there to hound me. That in itself isn't strange, but after my conversation with Ron and Hermione, I was in no mood to deal with them. I got frustrated, wished I could be someplace else, and *poof*," he gestures, "I ended up on your floor." Mrs. Malfoy shoots her gaze to the spot on the rug where he'd appeared, a small frown tugging at her lips. "If I've damaged your rug, I'll gladly pay for repairs. My apologies."

Her hand waves dismissively in the air. "I'm not concerned about the rug, Mr. Potter. What troubles me is how you ended up here with no clear destination in mind. You could have ended up anywhere."

"Well," he adds, "I did sort of have a destination. The meeting with my friends didn't go well, and I was in a rotten state of mind. Then the reporters started shouting from the end of the street, and I knew they would follow if I ran. I was thinking that I just needed some space, some time to deal with…certain difficulties in my life right now. I wanted some peace. I think I called 'sanctuary', and the next thing I know, I'm here."

Narcissa Malfoy looks absolutely gob smacked. It's an interesting expression on her regal face. One that quite doesn't belong. Her voice quavers as she speaks. "Sanct—you called for 'sanctuary' specifically?"

Harry nods. "Yes, I think so." He thinks back on it, and shakes his head more rapidly. "Yes, that's it, I'm sure. 'Sanctuary'."

"Well," she breathes into the air. "That certainly is telling."

Malfoy pops upright in his chair. "Telling? What's so telling about Potter here popping into places he doesn't belong? Merlin knows he's done enough of that for a lifetime. He probably pops round to places all the time. It's Monday? How about the Ministry fountains? Thursday? Isn't Wales horrible this time of year? Easter Sunday? Why don't I just come back from the dead like Jesus bloody Christ?"

The plates on the tea cart rattle with a surge of Harry's irritated magic as Malfoy's mother snaps, "Draco! That was uncalled for!"

Malfoy's face goes ashen at Harry's little display of untapped power, either that, or his mother's bite has more sting than he realizes.

Harry raises a hand, taking great care to look Malfoy in the eye. "It's alright. I know this is an awful surprise for you both. I'm probably the last person you ever expected to see again."

Malfoy swallows, but says nothing in kind.

Mrs. Malfoy frowns at Malfoy again, hard and cutting, before softening her features for Harry. "There isn't much I can think of that would cause this sort of thing to happen, other than two things."

"Which are?" Harry leans forward. Narcissa Malfoy is one smart witch, and any insight she might have might as well be coming from Hermione Granger-Weasley, he's fairly certain.

"One, your magic brought you here, recognizing your innate need without you even knowing what it is, or…two—"

"Two?"

The Malfoy matriarch's face is resolute. That makes Harry's heart skip a beat in his chest.

"Or two, Mr. Potter, the Manor itself brought you to us."


	3. Chapter 3

"With all due respect, Mrs. Malfoy, I don't see how that's possible." Harry's holding back a bark of incredulous laughter, because her suggestion is ludicrous.

She shifts in her seat, raising her chin slightly, and Harry knows he's probably offended her six ways from Sunday, but what she's implying seems so out of touch with reality that he can't even wrap his head around it.

"It _is_ possible, Mr. Potter," she goes on. "The Manor is quite old, and the very land on which it sits is imbued with the most ancient of magics. For it to have heard your call and responded in this manner is indeed strange, but _not_ impossible."

"But _why_ would it have brought him here?" It's the sheer offense in Malfoy's words that makes Harry's head turn his way. "What in the hell would the Manor want with Potter, of all people?"

His mother offers a delicate shrug and takes another sip of her tea. "Perhaps we have something to offer Mr. Potter, and perhaps he has something to offer the Manor in return. Who can say? It doesn't change the fact that he is here—" And this is where something turns over inside Harry's chest, spreading out an unexpected warmth that travels down his spine to his toes, "—and by his own admission, is in need." She sets the cup on the cart and folds her hands in her lap, linking her fingers together. "I think you should stay, Mr. Potter."

Out of all the things he expected to come out of Narcissa Malfoy's mouth, an invitation to stay certainly wasn't one of them.

"You want me to stay?" Harry asks, unable to believe what he's hearing.

"Yes," she says breezily. "The Manor is quiet; it's just Draco, the house-elves, and I. I keep myself busy, and Draco's return from Switzerland has kept him occupied with his investments. No one will bother you here. As a matter of fact, I think Malfoy Manor is the last place people will think to look for you. The grounds are extensive, lovely even in winter, and there are many, many rooms in which to lose yourself for a while. You'll have ample time to rest, meditate, read or study if you like." She smiles. "No outside intrusions, unless of course you wish your friends to visit. If you need peace and solitude in order to refocus on aspects of your life, you can find it here."

"I was thinking of painting." Harry is horrified as the words tumble out. He wants to say something else, something that doesn't sound completely mental, but he's stopped by Mrs. Malfoy's warm smile.

"How wonderful. We have a studio. I'm sure you'll find it more than adequate for your needs." Her eyes are entreating. "Please…stay."

There are at least a hundred different reasons he should say no. First and foremost is Malfoy. Their history is nothing short of volatile, and he knows it would probably please Malfoy to end if they ended up hexing each other at every turn. But second—is Malfoy. Barefoot and ruffled, with a sneer that seems to wax and wane like the tide, and it's so intriguing that Harry wants to know more. He wants to know about Switzerland, wants to know why he's wearing worn trousers and gets huffy over an enthusiastic house-elf. Wants to know if it's his magic's own doing or this old edifice of stalwart pureblood supremacy that's brought him here. Beyond that, there are so many other reasons to say no, but so many questions that he can have answered.

A niggling part of his brain urges him to turn and look at Malfoy, really look at him. He's still pointy, but he's grown into his features, and now the sharpness is a point of admiration. His eyes are guarded and Harry wonders what has put that caution there. Malfoy's always been open and honest with his hostility; this man is subdued. Whether he's letting it simmer, or the real fight's been taken out of him is anybody's guess. He's shown he's capable of short bursts of outrageous emotion, but it's easily quelled, and Harry finds that incredibly appealing. So when the answer scoots from the back of his throat to the tip of his tongue, he's looking directly at Malfoy to gauge his reaction.

"Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. I believe I will accept your gracious offer of hospitality."

Harry expects a violent protest, but when Malfoy's chin dips ever so softly down and to his right and his lashes lower in what Harry knows in his bones to be, fucking Merlin, _deference_, of all things, his heart slams in his chest. Because that tiny gesture, so fleeting and imperceptible, makes Harry want like he hasn't wanted in months.

"I'll let Cook know to expect one more for meals for the time being. The house-elves are at your disposal if there are things you wish to retrieve from your flat."

Mrs. Malfoy stands, ever so graceful, and Harry rises along with her. She spares him a long glance, and Harry can't quite fathom what's going on in her eyes. She is warm and enigmatic, and Harry feels a distinct pull toward her. Her smile is light and a little wistful. Her hands tremble a touch before she clasps them together in front of her.

"I don't know why you're here, Mr. Potter, and I'm not sure it's something I need to understand. But for whatever reason, either the Manor or your own magic has brought you to us. You came in through our wards with no trouble at all, and I cannot discount that. This house sees you as family." Harry hears Malfoy suck in a breath, but he doesn't look over at him. "So, if it's sanctuary you seek, we will do our best to ensure you have it." This time, her smile is bright and wide, and more welcoming than he ever thought possible. She inclines her head regally and steps forward with a small curtsy. "We are honored to have you, Mr. Potter. May we provide you safe haven for as long as you need."

Her speech is formal, her gestures even more so, but there's something so comforting about her presence that sticks in his throat, leaving him unable to croak out anything more than, "Ha-Harry. Call me Harry."

"Then you must call me Narcissa." She reaches out a hand, and Harry takes it. It's small and delicate, fine-boned and elegant. But it's strong in his grasp, and she squeezes to add, "Or Cissa. I insist."

He really hopes he's not standing there staring at her like an idiot; he's prided himself on proper comportment in these situations. Merlin knows Hermione has drilled it into him since the end of the war, and there's a formal aspect to several of the clubs he's frequented that expect such a degree of etiquette. A formal and cultured dom is a highly-sought dom. And Harry is well-trained. "Very well, Cissa," he manages. "Your hospitality is appreciated."

Her eyes shine, dangerously close to something liquid, and before he knows it, her hand is now cradling his cheek. "Such a fine young man you've turned into, Harry. Your mother would be so proud." The way she says it, it's almost a whisper in the air, a sort of hushed declaration that hooks into his chest and _pulls_. He can't say anything at this point, it's all too surreal, and the day's events are catching up with him in a maelstrom of unexpected emotion. Suddenly, she's gathered him close, embracing him tightly with a whiff of jasmine and something herbaceous, and he finds himself hugging back equally as strong.

Narcissa pulls back and smoothes the line of his shirt with a steady hand. She turns and heads toward the door, stopping next to Malfoy before she leaves.

"Close your mouth, Draco. You'll catch flies."

Harry watches her glide from the room, silk skirts swishing as she goes, before turning his attention to Malfoy. His mouth is indeed hanging open on a slight gape, and his expression is one of complete bewilderment. His eyes settle on Harry as he blows out a soft breath.

"I have never seen my mother hug anyone but my father and myself," he says quietly, with a touch of awe. "I think I can safely say that I have seen everything in this life that there is to see." He sighs again. "Well done, Potter. I think Cook's about to get an earful to make sure everything is perfect for you."

Harry gives a little shake to focus on Malfoy's words as he sits back down. "Cook? You have a house-elf named Cook?"

Malfoy slings an ankle over his knee, letting his bare foot just hang out there between them. He's settled into a light slouch since his mother left the room, and the change in position has left the collar of his shirt to spread wide, revealing the hollow in his collarbone. Not to mention the looseness of his shoulders, a smattering of platinum fringe over one eye, and the splay of his hips at the slight scrunch of his spine. The pose is lazy, indolent, and altogether magnetic. If a herd of rampaging Thestrals entered the room, Harry knows his eyes would still be on Malfoy.

Malfoy takes in a deep breath and lets it out with an amused sigh. "Ah, yes, Cook. The house-elf formerly known as 'Tinky'. She insists we call her Cook."

Harry chuckles at the thought of a house-elf insisting on anything from Malfoy. "And how did this come about?"

Malfoy waves a hand in the air in a broad, sweeping gesture. "The Fall of the House of Malfoy, er, the Ministry version anyway. After the war, Father and I were sent to Azkaban, as I'm sure you remember, and Mother was on house arrest. The Ministry took custody of the Manor and freed all the house-elves. They, however, were outraged, and refused to leave my mother shut up all alone. Apparently, there was a big to-do about it, and the Ministry and the elves came to an agreement. They would be freed, but the Ministry would agree to pay their employment wages out of what little was left in our vaults. Since they didn't actually want to be paid, those sums went into a trust which only the Ministry had access to. Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't already know about it, I thought Granger was on one of those committees."

"She's on a lot of committees," Harry replies dryly.

"Anyway, they all demanded to wear whatever they want, which is why Blinky looks like she does. She claims yellow makes her, of all things, _happy_." Malfoy rolls his eyes at that, but now Harry can see the smile. Malfoy's _fond_ of the cheery little elf, he'd bet good Galleons on it. He also can't help but notice this is probably the longest conversation he's ever had with Malfoy. As a matter of fact, he thinks this is the most he's ever heard Malfoy speak in general.

"And Cook? Er…Tinky?"

Malfoy's smile goes a bit firmer. "Tinky decided she wanted to wear nothing but tutus and for us to call her 'Cook'. Because that's what she does, she says. She 'cooks'. I know, it's all a bit weird, but honestly, she's an outright menace if she doesn't get her way."

"Can she actually cook?"

Malfoy licks his lips and groans, and Harry thinks he might slide right off the sofa. "Merlin, yes. She's a terror, but the blasted wretch makes a chocolate trifle you'd ride to hell and back for. Just don't piss her off. Otherwise, every meal you're served for a fortnight will taste like Hippogriff piss and give you the shits."

Harry snickers, earning Malfoy's raised eyebrow. "I take it you learned that the hard way?"

The smile works its way across Malfoy's lips with some effort, but ultimately Malfoy can't hold it back. "Two weeks!" he exclaims. "I subsisted on stolen apples and pilfered Brie from my own fucking larder whilst trying to avoid shitting my mother's rugs with every step." He's laughing now, and the sound is infectious.

The pop of a house-elf catches both their attention. "Master Harry Potter's room is being ready now," Blinky says with a chirp. "Miss Cissa is wanting him in the room across from Master Dragon."

Harry's lips curve into a smile as he stands. "'Master Dragon'?"

Malfoy's lips purse. "A childhood nickname. One my mother is fond of. I swear," he sighs, coming over to lead Harry out the door. "It's like I'm six all over again."

Harry finds Malfoy's irritation amusing. It's given his cheeks some color and a resounding flash of life to his eyes. The effect is utterly charming. On a whim, he leans in, getting dangerously close to Malfoy's annoyed face. "Is it because you're all fire and bite?" he teases.

Malfoy's eyes go wide at the sudden proximity, but he recovers and shifts away to pronounce, "These days it's more because I'm all temper and hot air. I think post-war has dampened all my heat, I'm afraid."

Harry notes the subtle swallow of Malfoy's throat, mesmerized by the gesture. He can't help himself, he really can't, not with the sudden choppiness of Malfoy's breathing, or the bead of sweat that is glistening on his brow. "Yes," Harry murmurs, "but banked fires can burn slower and hotter than ones that flare and then flicker out. Maybe you haven't discovered the right kind of kindling."

Malfoy actually steps back this time, putting distance between them. His face shutters closed. "Well, Switzerland left me rather cold. I don't suppose England will be much better."

"Who knows, Malfoy? Maybe things are about to change."

Something passes over Malfoy's eyes, a flicker of emotion that Harry just can't read, not yet.

"Maybe for you, Potter. But not for me."

The defeat in Malfoy's gaze urges Harry to touch now, and he grabs at Malfoy's arm. "Don't give up on me yet. Stranger things have happened. I ended up here, didn't I?"

His fingers curl around Malfoy's forearm, and Malfoy hisses at the contact, his eyes jerking downward. Harry's fingers are securely wrapped around the Dark Mark, and Malfoy snatches his arm away, rolling down the cuff of his sleeve. He supposes his own gasp is involuntary, and knows that Malfoy sees it as disgust. The horrified embarrassment on his face says as much. Malfoy opens his mouth on something that Harry instinctively knows is going to be an apology, because he figures Malfoy's been apologizing for the damn tattoo for ages.

"Don't," Harry tells him quickly. "You don't have to cover it up. It doesn't bother me to look at it."

Malfoy holds the arm to his chest as if he's been burned, and replies with a vehement force that lacks anything resembling heat. "Maybe it bothers me for you to look at it."

Harry sees Malfoy's resolve begin to crumble, but he's a master, he is, and the wall around Malfoy's emotions is back up in a heartbeat. And that won't do. Because since the moment Harry dropped into Malfoy Manor and laid eyes on Malfoy and his bare feet, something in Harry has flared to life, and he'll be damned if he's going to let that feeling go. Not now, not when Malfoy has presented him with the most interesting puzzle he's ever wanted to solve. So he lets the heat he's been feeling in his gut pour out through his limbs, sluice through his blood, and settle to shimmer in his eyes. It's only fair to give Malfoy a warning. It's only fair to let Malfoy know that things are indeed about to change.

Harry feels his body shift to master control of his want, to project it outward, clearly, and with decisive intent. His voice drops low into a tone that he knows will brook no argument; it hasn't ever, not even with the most difficult of subs.

"You should get over that, then. Because you're going to find that as long as I'm here, I'm going to be looking at all of you. Mark and all. Inside and out. There isn't anything that you won't be able to hide from me." He smiles as Malfoy registers his words with restrained surprise, and possibly a bit of fear. It's an astonishing good look for the Slytherin. "Not for long, anyway."

He can calculate the time it takes for Malfoy's expression to wane back into a mask in mere seconds. It's a start. A small one, but a start all the same.

Malfoy stiffens and drops his arm. "Let me show you to your room, Potter."

Harry lets himself smile and offers Malfoy a curt bow of acknowledgement. "Lead the way."


	4. Chapter 4

Harry follows Malfoy down a maze of hallways and corridors, but his eyes can't be bothered to note the elegant surroundings of the Manor's interior chambers. His eyes are far too fixed on the way Malfoy's spine stands straight, and even more so on the curves of his arse undulating beneath the fabric of his trousers.

It is a glorious sight to behold. His mouth goes a little dry, in a way it hasn't in very long. The feeling is so welcome he has to say something to fill the silence and maintain his grip on his composure.

"If I'd known it was going to be a two-day trek, I would have grabbed another one of those sandwiches for the trip."

Malfoy's stride doesn't break in the slightest. Harry likes that. Much more than he probably should. It means that he didn't startle Malfoy, that Malfoy's been aware of him the entire time. Awareness is a good thing because awareness precipitates anticipation.

"Relax, Potter, we're here," Malfoy says, stopping at the end of the hall, and Harry can hear the eye roll in the haughty drawl. "This is your room." He flips a hand at the door. "I'm across from you. You'll find everything you need inside. Call for a house-elf if not." Malfoy sighs heavily and turns. "I'll see you at dinner."

"Why so far?"

"What?" Malfoy turns back to face him with tired eyes.

"Your room? It's clear at the other end of the house. Why is that?"

Small lines crease the corners of Malfoy's grey eyes as he stiffens a bit. He draws in a breath before replying, "Mother's room is in the other wing. She's a light sleeper, and I—I keep odd hours." Long lashes flutter over those stormy gray depths. "She needs her rest. I don't like to disturb her."

It's there in the shadows from one blink to the next, and Harry can read the subtext. Malfoy's suffering from nightmares. Harry lets the sympathetic smile grace his lips.

"I've been known to keep odd hours myself. Maybe we'll run into each other in the wee hours of the morning?"

The blankness is back on Malfoy's face, but Harry thinks that there's possibly a hint of disbelief lurking underneath the mask, like he's not sure if Harry's mental or not.

"Doubtful."

"Okay, then. See you later." Harry opens the door to his room and steps inside, when Malfoy lets out a low, deep breath. It sounds like another sigh, but one of frustration instead of weariness.

"Why are you here, Potter?"

Malfoy's stiff in the hallway, hands clenched at his sides, the lines of his lips pinched so tight against his face they've lost all color.

"I thought we covered that. I don't know how I got here."

"No," Malfoy says, shaking his head with force. The tone of his voice is sharper, higher, and definitely defensive. It's skating very close to the edge of fear as he continues, "No. I mean why are you staying? Why would you want to?"

Harry straightens, but not too much, just enough to put a calming, yet confident vibe out between them that, if Harry's instincts are right, will instantly get a response from Malfoy. It's the sort of stance he's used in the past that never fails to soothe and pacify. It's a stance that radiates safety and control, one that tells the sub that Harry's got everything under control and there's no need to worry. It incites trust on a subconscious level, and it's a specialty of Harry's.

It works.

The tension bleeds out of Malfoy's shoulders and hands, and he lets a soft breath of relaxation.

Harry smiles at him, genuinely pleased at Malfoy's shift in demeanor. Even if Malfoy himself doesn't recognize it, Harry does. All the more reason to stay and unlock more of Malfoy's secrets.

"I _need_ something."

Malfoy swallows and licks his lips. "Wh-what do you need?"

"Well, I don't know. But apparently I'm going to find it here. And I'm not leaving until I do."

The finality of the statement has a second to linger in the air before Malfoy huffs in that old, familiar way, and rolls his eyes. "You're just going to hang out here and blunder about our lives until you," he makes sarcastic finger quotes in the air, "_find yourself_? Merlin save me from Gryffindors and their reckless tangents!"

Harry narrows his eyes in acute displeasure and glides forward right into Malfoy's personal space, hovering just on the other side of uncomfortable. His voice is low, this time it's dangerous and he knows it, but he doesn't care. "I'm long out of school, Malfoy. And I may have been a Gryffindor, but I can assure you that I am in complete control of myself. I no longer 'blunder about' and you can be certain that for every move I make, for every word that comes out of my mouth, there is a reason behind it. So I'm going to figure out how and why I got here, whether or not it pleases you. You can decide to be nice, or you can decide to be a shit. But I'm telling you that if you expect me to revert to our old, petty ways, it's not going to happen. _I_ have more self-control that that." Harry's lips curve into a challenging smirk. "Do you?"

Malfoy's response is to gape for exactly three seconds before he turns his back and slams the door to his room.

Well, Harry muses, that went better than expected.


	5. Chapter 5

The tension Harry expects at dinner is unsurprisingly present. However, it seems to be centered at Malfoy's end of the table. In fact, Harry's enjoying a perfectly lovely conversation with Narcissa at the other end about her Trilling Roses, while Draco's poking around at his trifle like it's insulted him personally.

"It's been quite troubling," Narcissa says. "They've bloomed perfectly like last year, but they just won't trill." She shakes her head with a soft sigh. "Perhaps I'm losing my touch."

"Nonsense," Harry chides her with a smile. "A witch as skilled as yourself? I don't think so, Cissa. Why don't you let me get Neville Longbottom out here and take a look?"

From the other end of the table, Malfoy shoots up straight in his chair. "Longbottom? Are you serious, Potter?"

Harry ignores him in favor of quelling the look of surprise on Narcissa's face. "Of course I'm sure. I wouldn't have suggested otherwise. Nev's the best when it comes to plants. He's the Herbology professor at Hogwarts now."

Narcissa's straighter in her chair than Malfoy and a worried pinch steals across her lips. "I don't know, Harry. I would hate for him to visit and feel uncomfortable. The Manor has left its mark on so many in one way or another. I don't wish to reopen old wounds."

His hand reaches for hers on instinct, cradling it gently. "Neville Longbottom is a good man, and not the kind to let the past intrude on his present. He's made his peace with things. But if you're inclined to keep to yourself, I'll respect that." Harry's lips curve into a sly grin as he adds, "And I know for a fact that he'd love to get out here and see your famous gardens firsthand. From what I hear, they're legendary. Much like their mistress."

A faint blush steals across Narcissa's cheeks and she swats playfully at his hand. "Such shameless flattery." Her eyes twinkle as she directs her smile to her son. "Watch yourself with this one, Draco. He's a terrible flirt."

It's like someone's banging a gong right in Harry's brain. Narcissa Malfoy has all but outed her son over pudding. Even better, she sounds _encouraging_.

Malfoy, however, is as droll as ever, rolling his eyes with a put-upon sigh.

"I'll be sure to guard my virtue, Mother."

Narcissa lets out a hoot of laughter, and the unexpected sound is warm the air. "Darling, it's not your virtue I'm concerned with. If you're not careful, Harry here will steal your heart."

Harry's body goes flush at Narcissa's banter, but he keeps quiet and watches Malfoy instead with a pointed stare. Malfoy's gone all pink around the edges and stares daggers at his mother.

"It's all right," Harry says smoothly, hoping to deflect some of Malfoy's discomfort. "I'll give him fair warning before I take anything." He shrugs with amused self-deprecation. "Can't help it," he grins. "Gryffindor."

Narcissa chuckles and rises from her chair. Harry and Malfoy follow. "If you can get Mr. Longbottom here to look at my roses, I would certainly welcome his insight."

Harry nods. "I'll firecall him tomorrow."

"I'm going to retire for the evening. Perhaps Draco can show you the studio this evening?"

He shoots a glance at Malfoy, who inclines his head. "Of course, Mother. Rest well. We'll see you at breakfast."

"Wonderful." She glides forward to Harry and presses her hands to his forearms, sliding them slowly upward over his shirtsleeves. Misinterpreted, it would be a lover's caress, but her under hands all Harry feels is gentle strength and reassurance. It's a mother's touch through and through, as old and eternal as time itself. Her hands rest at his shoulders and she assesses him with that same motherly gaze, like she's taking stock of his health. She pulls him softly toward her and Harry goes without hesitation. He eases into her embrace and winds his arms around her slight frame.

"Thank you, Harry." The words are whispered into his neck with sincere gratitude and a heavy layer of fondness.

What gets to him the most is the slow and poignant nature of Narcissa's simple hug. It's not rushed, but savored, and carries more meaning that any hug ever given by Molly Weasley. Not that Harry doubts Molly's love, but her hugs are frantic and fierce, altogether short because she's moved on to another body to accost. There's a time limit, a rationing if you will, because Molly has so many to mother, so many to love. Narcissa just has Malfoy, but she makes Harry feel like she has him too.

She pulls back and presses a warm kiss to his cheek, drifting out of his hold with a swish of her skirts before she heads for Malfoy. Harry's breath stalls in his chest as he watches Narcissa enfold Malfoy with the same slow movements. He expected it to be a sort of lip service, what she said earlier about the wards recognizing him as family. But now, seeing her with Draco, it hits home. She's treating him exactly the same way she treats Malfoy. Not as a guest, not even as a friend, but as a son.

In that moment, Harry feels something slide into place within his heart. He can almost hear the click in his brain. Magic tingles on the surface of his skin, the same sort of feeling he got when he Apparated in. It's warm and settling, and he feels a bit heavier, like his feet are rooted to the floor. It's the Manor.

But Malfoy and his mother give no notice that the house is exerting itself. It's as if the feeling is reserved for Harry, and Harry alone. He's never felt anything like it, but he knows one thing.

He wants to feel it again.


	6. Chapter 6

Malfoy throws open the heavy double doors with more force than is strictly necessary, stomping into the room without a word, leaving Harry to follow. It's either that or stand out in the hallway, and he has to bite back a chuckle at the blond's petulance.

Harry can only imagine what Malfoy's tweaked about now, but given the past few hours of his company, and knowing him like he does, Harry thinks there's really no telling.

"Behold, Potter," Malfoy says, the dry spite echoing out into the vastness of the cavernous room. "The studio."

Studio is an understatement, as are most things when it comes to Malfoy. The ballroom-sized space is open and airy, with bright white walls that extend upwards to what has to be a twenty or twenty-five foot ceiling. The wall directly opposite the door has to be some thirty feet across, and floor to ceiling windows are reflecting the outside winter landscape. It's gone half-nine in the evening, but those windows are letting in early morning sunshine.

"Charmed." Malfoy speaks again in the same irritated tone. "The windows. You change the lighting to suit your needs." He points to a side door in the far corner. "Closet's through there. Easels, supplies, whatnot. You'll have to go through it, as I have no idea what's in there. So don't ask."

Malfoy's hand drops roughly to his side, and those lips purse harder than he's ever seen. Malfoy's tightly wound, like a spring that's ready to pop.

Harry ignores him and starts a mental countdown in his head as he strolls lazily around the room, because it's only a matter of time before Malfoy's temper gets the best of him. Despite Malfoy's earlier urgings of his quelled fire, Harry knows it's bound to make an appearance sooner or later. They will never fail to push each other's buttons.

But Harry recognizes that his presence in the Manor alone is enough make him the pusher, not the pushee. Frankly, Harry doesn't have buttons anymore, not since he's swapped out the boy he used to be for the man he's rewired himself to become.

Malfoy's gaze is piercing on his back as Harry makes his lap around the room, and he picks up on the silent seething that's being directed his way. He knows Malfoy has changed, can see that in so many other ways, but right now the clock is ticking.

And…three…two…one.

"_What in the bleeding hell were you thinking inviting Longbottom here?"_

It's a veritable screech, highly undignified, and terribly amusing.

Harry opens his mouth but shuts it a second later because Malfoy has suddenly _lost the plot_, shouting and gesturing like a herd of rabid Thestrals.

"_This is not a halfway house for Gryffindors! You can't just show up here and throw open our doors to the unwashed masses!"_

Malfoy's voice hits a strangled high.

"_For fucking roses!"_

He's pacing back and forth now, heavy stomps on expensive inlaid flooring.

"_Who's next? The rest of your idiotic cohorts? And my mother! Do you expect her to serve tea to your cronies? Will they even break bread with Death Eaters?"_

Harry stares at him as he goes on. Malfoy's worked himself into a proper strop, and he can't string together coherent sentences any longer. The words 'fucking Longbottom', 'Golden Trio', and 'infestation' spout from his lips with all the force of expletives.

Malfoy's eyes are wild and frantic and his body is strung taut, even as his limbs flail about in protest. His shouting is reaching a pinnacle, and Harry hears incandescent rage and indignant affront in the bellows. But he also hears something else, something buried deep among the shrillness. Beneath the high-pitched bluster, Harry hears the undercurrent of an emotion that he knows intimately.

Fear.

The tantrum is clearly a coping mechanism; one Harry indulges for a few seconds more, until Malfoy tips over the edge from childish to desperate.

He's violently barreling around the room, never getting close enough to Harry to be a threat, but the expression on his face is downright murderous. Malfoy's brow is furrowed into deep creases, his skin is blotchy and red, and beads of sweat have dotted across his hairline. He's sucking in air as quickly as he's letting it out in his tirade. There's a vein that's popped out at his temple and Harry swears to Merlin he can take Malfoy's blood pressure just by looking at it. He's shaky and flustered, and so, so angry.

Harry slowly puts his hands in his pockets and takes a deep breath. It's amazing how quickly Malfoy has escalated into behavior that Harry's fairly certain wouldn't be happening if he wasn't here.

This isn't good. It's not even in the same post code as good. Malfoy's a man who's always maintained control in the face of others, or at least tried to. The perfect pureblood prince. Stoic, masked, and always in control. But he's losing his grasp on it here, and he's doing it in a way that isn't remotely productive.

Harry can understand the need to let go, to cede control of his emotions, even if he doesn't experience it himself. But Malfoy's a live wire now, sparking and burning across the room. His emotions are running away with him and there's nothing he can do but hang on. He's lost control and he's scared, but he can't stop. He's got no ground, no anchor, and he's spiraling higher and higher toward an inevitable crash. Malfoy's anxiety is pulsing out of him in waves so thick Harry thinks he can reach out and pluck it from the air like a Snitch.

Harry's breath stutters when he realizes he hasn't said a single word to Malfoy since entering the room. Malfoy has worked himself into this state all on his own. And that is unacceptable.

"Enough." He doesn't need to shout over Malfoy, because the moment his mouth opened, Malfoy's eyes latched onto his face.

Malfoy stalks over and stands an arm's length from him. _"Just what the bloody fuck, Potter?"_

The question is a pleading whine, and Malfoy's face winces at his own words. He's floundering still; Harry can see it in swirling in his eyes. He's got nothing to cling to. So Harry makes the decision for him. He'll be the anchor. It's up to Malfoy to reach for it. Manipulation has never been Harry's style, because manipulation is fraught with deceit. Harry will steer him back, but Malfoy's got to choose the path.

"Harry. Call me Harry."

"What?" Malfoy snorts and shakes his head in confusion.

"Say it."

Malfoy steps back and rolls his eyes. "You're off your nut."

Malfoy's a few good inches taller, but it only takes a fraction of distance for Harry to lean forward and radiate command with his presence. Malfoy's head immediately dips to his gaze.

"Say it."

Malfoy's body stiffens and his mouth works open and shut before he croaks out. "Ha—Harry."

And there it is.

"Good." Harry lets the praise rumble out of his mouth like a purr. "Thank you." He breathes deeply and rocks back on his heels. "That wasn't so difficult, was it, Malfoy?"

The daggers are back in Malfoy's gray stare. "You're infuriating. You demand familiarity and in the next breath you're sneering 'Malfoy' like we're first years."

Harry cocks his head. "I didn't sneer. And I don't take liberties where none have been offered. It's _rude_." He waits while Malfoy stares at him, bewildered.

It takes a second for Malfoy to get the hint, but he does, huffing, "Fine. Draco."

Harry raises an eyebrow and waits again.

The stare is discomforting after a second or two, Harry knows, because he's perfected it, and finally Malfoy concedes.

"Draco. Call me Draco." Malfoy swallows audibly and adds, "Please."

Harry smiles full of genuine pleasure. "Of course. Thank you."

"That's it? Years of animosity to get to first names and all I had to do was ask?" He sounds sanctimoniously perplexed.

Harry closes the distance between them until the scent of citrus and sweat bleeds into his nostrils. He leans over, putting his mouth precariously close to Draco's ear. "All you ever have to do is ask. Remember that, _Draco_."

Draco looks suitably fuddled when Harry pulls back. The sight is pleasantly arousing. He turns and heads for the doors.

"Wh—where are you going?"

"To bed," Harry answers, not looking back. "Blinky?" he calls, and the house-elf pops in.

"How is Blinky to be helping Master Harry Potter?"

Harry smiles down at her. "It's been a lovely evening, Blinky, and I fancy a stroll back to my room. Care to join me?" He stretches out a hand and offers it.

"Anything for Master Harry Potter, sir."

"Just Harry."

Blinky giggles and slips her hand into his. "Anything for Master Harry."

They walk out of the room and Harry turns back to shut the doors, his eyes finding the incredulous Slytherin. "Goodnight, Draco. Sleep well."

00000

The doors shut behind Potter and Blinky, and Draco lets out a strangled gasp. The hole that's been gnawing away in his gut since Potter dropped in has finally eaten through to his spine, leaving him empty with a roiling ache. He's calmer now than he was, and the knowledge that Po—no, _Harry_ is the reason tempers that calm with an unsettling clarity.

There's something rattling around the cavern of his belly, and when it seeps out into his bones to take root, recognition dawns. It's the hollow echo of the house-elf's words.

_Anything for Master Harry._

Sweet Salazar Slytherin, he's fucked.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry slides into wakefulness with a half-smile on his face and a comfortable lethargy in his bones. He stretches his arms over his head, relishing the tender pull of muscles and tendons as they unfurl, burning off the heavy fog of sleep. His eyes flutter open to take in the draped fabrics of the overhead canopy. He has to admit, this sort of luxury is something he can get used to. There's no alarm, nothing pressing, nothing that requires his immediate attention. No Ministry to rush off to, no Ron or Hermione calling from the Floo, demanding to know why he's still in bed at—he casts a quick Tempus—ten a.m. on a Thursday.

Suddenly, the canopy makes sense and he remembers Narcissa and Draco. He's late for breakfast.

A twinge of guilt touches over his nerves, but he doesn't really think Narcissa will take offense. Draco, on the other hand, is a different story entirely. He doesn't dwell on why that particular thought is both amusing and unsettling. Harry simply pushes back the covers and decides to head for the shower. His feet hit the floor but he stops, gripped with that same grounding feeling from last night.

For some reason his eyes glance back to the enormous bed.

The looming four-poster with its wide and downy-soft mattress is still inviting even though it's no longer fastidiously made. A pleasant hum vibrates through Harry as he stares at the bed sheets. They're a rich blue, swirling and inky as twilight, and the hum of magic strengthens as he imagines them outlining the shape of another body. Pale, creamy limbs contrast with the dark, buttery silk as they drape over the curves and angles of a lithe male form.

It's Draco.

Deep in slumber, the expanse of his chest rises and falls with soft, slow breaths, and his plush, pink lips are slightly parted. He is peaceful, quiet in languorous sleep, and so beautiful that Harry's breath evaporates. Unfettered by the slick gels from their Hogwarts days, his platinum hair looks soft as corn silk as it spreads out across the pillow. Harry's fingers curl by his side with the urge to _touch _and_ keep touching_. His body is lax and half-twisted among the sheets, and there's enough skin peeking out to make Harry's pupils dilate, widening to soak in as much of the sight as possible. He sleeps with the heavy repose of the sated and utterly satisfied, spent for all the best reasons, like Harry's completely fucked him out.

Harry's cock jumps at the thought.

Harry imagines those long lashes fluttering so sweetly, slowly opening to pin him down with those piercing gray eyes. He imagines a hand, long-fingered and adept, one that knows how to touch, to please, reaching out in question.

He lurches toward the bed when the hum of magic snaps in his blood, making him brace a hand on the mattress to keep from falling. He looks back to the sheets.

Empty.

Harry snorts out a breath and huffs out a short laugh as he shoots his eyes to the ceiling. It seems the house isn't through with him yet.

"If you're trying for subtle," Harry says, addressing the room at large, "you're failing miserably."

The frisson of magic he feels as a result is tinged with smug amusement, but underneath there's a heavy portent of divination. As a man who is intimately acquainted with the trappings of prophecy, it's something he knows he can't ignore. But he's done with manipulation on all fronts, no matter the source, no matter the intent.

He adds with a frown, "Push all you like, but I won't go where I'm not wanted." Harry waits to see if the Manor is stubborn enough to respond, but the room goes quiet. Whether that's in offense or tacit agreement, he doesn't know, and really doesn't care. He casts one more look at the empty bed before turning to the bathroom. The one thing he does know is that the image of Draco in his bed is more than pleasing. It feels right.

His feet are lighter as he heads to the bathroom.

OOOOO

The ensuite is appointed in the same grand vein as the rest of the chamber: spacious, elegant, and luxuriously inviting. Harry turns the shower on and chucks off his pajamas as steam starts billowing out. He steps in, assaulted on all sides from the six showerheads. Harry groans and braces his hands on the tile at the glorious feel of the hot water. The tile must be charmed because it's warm beneath his hands. No bracing cold. He turns and presses his back to it, throwing his head back in pleasure. The pounding spray is heavenly, and the warm tile against his back feels so good he wants to sink into it.

The thought of pressing Draco against these same tiles starts a slow burn in his blood. He imagines Draco, long-limbed and gorgeous, begging for Harry's touch. Harry can see them tangled together, skin on skin, mouths against flesh, panting and desperate as Harry fucks him into the wall. Draco moans and writhes beneath him, clinging to Harry with fingers that bite, like he's the only thing Draco needs in this world.

There's no magical tweak; this time the fantasy is all Harry. He smiles as he palms his half-hard cock. Harry puts some serious consideration into having one off right now. Merlin knows he's good for it. Draco, wet and wanton, makes for excellent wanking material. Harry's no slave to his desires. He knows if he waits, all the better. He finishes his shower and steps out, wrapping a fluffy towel around his waist. He wraps up his ablutions with the toothbrush and paste in the cabinet and a drying charm on his hair.

Clothes. He needs clothes. Harry considers reaching for his old ones from yesterday, but given Narcissa's thoroughness with the products in the bathroom, he goes to the closet and isn't disappointed. It's filled with clothes, both Wizarding and muggle. He grabs a pair of boxers and socks before snagging a pair of neatly folded jeans and a soft cotton t-shirt from a hanger. He laughs out loud as he slips the on the purposely-faded shirt, emblazoned with a Muggle band logo. He wonders if Narcissa has any idea who 'Van Halen' is, but he has no doubt this is her doing. Her hand is all over this, not to mention he can smell traces of the jasmine scent she wears on the cotton. She handpicked these things specifically for him, he knows it. It wouldn't surprise him in the least if she still tries to pick out Draco's clothes as well.

Dressed, he firecalls Neville and asks him about the gardens. Neville's more than happy to come over and take a look, and there's not a hint of reservation that Harry can perceive. He tells Harry he'll send an owl to Narcissa to confirm. When Harry tells him that isn't necessary, Neville frowns and says, "Of all people, Harry, you should know that propriety has its place."

Nev's right of course, so Harry wishes him well and ends the call, knowing he'll see him soon. He's finishing tying the laces on his trainers when Blinky pops in.

"Brunch is being served, Master Harry. Will you be to joining Miss Cissa and Master Dragon?"

Harry stands up with a sigh and a smile. It seems so simple, brunch with Narcissa and Draco. Like it's an everyday occurrence. What if it was? He pauses for a moment, positive the thought will elicit a reaction from the Manor.

Nothing.

Harry mentally shrugs. Maybe this one he's meant to figure out on his own. So he goes with his gut and gives Blinky a wide smile and reaches for her hand. "I'd love to."


	8. Chapter 8

"Harry, there you are." Narcissa's voice is fond as he strolls into the dining room. "I was hoping you would join us. It seems we've all gotten a late start this morning." Her face is open and bright, while Draco sits next to her, glowering at his plate.

Blinky lets go of his hand. "You's be sitting, Master Harry. Blinky is to be bringing you breakfast." The cheery little elf prods him in the direction of the nearest chair, forcing him down into it with a tiny, but very strong grip on his elbow.

As he sits, Draco's audible gasp is heard from the other end of the table.

"What?" Harry asks, noting the way Narcissa's face goes a little pale. Draco's jaw tenses and the hand holding his fork in midair drops to the table with a heavy thunk.

"It's alright, Draco." Narcissa puts a hand on her son's arm. "Blinky wouldn't have directed him there if—"

"It's _Father's_ seat," Draco hisses at her.

Harry glances down, realizing that Blinky has, in fact, put him at the head of the table. Where the patriarch sits. Where Lucius Malfoy would be sitting if he were still alive. This can't be right. He expects the mistake to be rectified at once. Maybe the house will oust him from the chair. Maybe the specter of an angry Lucius Malfoy will make his presence known and wreak havoc until Harry gets his arse out of the chair. But nothing like that happens.

"I can—here, I'll move. I didn't even realize—" Harry's words trail as he moves to rise, but now there's a twinge of magic not just over the chair, but the entire table. It's weighing him down, and he can't get up. His legs feel bolted to the floor, and his arse feels like it's become permanently attached to the velvet cushion underneath it. The Manor doesn't want him to move. It doesn't want to let him go.

He shifts helplessly in the ornate chair, a little disgruntled that he's being subdued. A quick glance down the table has him watching Narcissa as wonder flits over her face like the flicker of a candle. It pauses, leaving behind a receptive smile. She's apparently more in tune with what's going on, which isn't surprising.

"Stay seated, Harry," she says. "There's no need to move. All is as it should be."

He complies, though he knows he couldn't move if he wanted to. Harry's a powerful wizard, but he's fairly certain the Manor could wipe with floor with him if it were so inclined. The smile on Narcissa's face is reassuring, and he can't detect any hint of malice in the magic. Yes, it's strong, but it's insistent, almost entreating in a way.

"You can't be serious, Mother!" Draco seethes next to her. His eyes are narrowed in contempt, his knuckles white from the clenched fists he has resting on the table. "The head of house always—"

"This house has no head!" she shoots back in annoyance. "Your father saw to that. And you have chosen not to take his place there. The house has made other arrangements, it seems." Her eyes flash at Draco and he backs down. "Even if only in the interim." She directs her gaze back to Harry. "Keep your seat, Harry. Everything is fine."

The meddlesome house irritates him to no end. First, it's the silk-draped fantasy of Draco Malfoy in his bed, and now it's the high-handed show of power that's got him glued to this seat. But Harry knows that on some level he _asked_ for this. He's still not certain if it's his magic, or the Manor, or a conspiracy of the two. He called for sanctuary. And this is what he got.

Harry grips the armrests of the chair tighter, preparing to see just how much the house is willing to accommodate him. "Fine," he says loudly into the air, "I'll accept the head. But I prefer to take my meals in a more intimate setting." That's the truth; he really doesn't want to spend the rest of his meals here down at the arse-other end of the table. The rectangular monstrosity seats sixteen, which given that it's only the three of them, is ridiculous. Harry waits, curious to see what happens next.

Narcissa and Draco gasp again as the extra chairs lining the table start disappearing one by one with a succession of audible pops. Once gone, a shudder of magic ripples over the table and it begins to shrink down toward Narcissa and Draco at the other end, stopping when it reaches a much smaller size. Only one extra chair remains, and it's opposite Draco, yet the table looks as if it can seat six comfortably. Harry's not at all surprised when his chair starts sliding across the floor toward the table. When Harry's flush, staring much closer at Narcissa and Draco's faces (hers amused, his slightly appalled), Blinky pops in with his breakfast.

"This is being much more cozy for the family," she says, putting down a full English in front of him. Blinky fusses with his napkin, and pats at him with a cheery grin. "Will Master Harry be taking tea or coffee?"

It's pointless now to be surprised by anything else that happens, Harry realizes. He can't control the house, or its magic, but the one thing he can control is his reaction to it. Nothing sinister has happened so far, and Blinky is beside herself with happiness. Narcissa seems resigned, and Draco—well, Draco's going to be the only foreseeable obstacle. Barring that, there's nothing he can do except follow the lead. He smiles at Blinky.

"Coffee would be lovely."

Blinky pours from a silver pitcher, and Harry tucks into his breakfast because he doesn't know how to follow showy house magic. "Pass the salt" seems a bit underwhelming.

Narcissa sips her tea and dabs at her mouth with her napkin before addressing him. "I trust your quarters are acceptable?"

"Yes, you've thought of everything. Thank you."

She waves her hand. "It was no trouble, I assure you. We merely want you to be as comfortable as possible." Her head turns to her son. "Don't we, Draco?"

Draco's face is pinched around the edges, but there's no outright frown. He looks constipated.

"Of course, Mother. Harry's comfort is our foremost priority."

He'd like to say that he's not outwardly affected at how hearing his given name rolls off Draco's tongue, but he is. It doesn't go unnoticed by Narcissa, either.

"Well," she says, amused, "it looks as though you two had a lovely chat last night."

Harry swallows a mouthful of fluffy omelet. "We did. I think Draco and I have come to an agreement to put the past behind us."

Narcissa looks to Draco for confirmation. His head is bowed over his toast, and he crunches into it with force, nodding curtly.

"He did show me the studio," Harry adds. "It will perfectly suit my needs. Everything here will."

Draco's eyes are still firmly fixed on his half-empty plate, and that attractive blush is creeping into his cheeks again. Harry's not sure if it's from the scrutiny he's giving Draco, or more the fact that Draco doesn't like to be talked about as if he's not even in the room.

"Oh, that's wonderful, Harry. But there's no need to rush yourself into anything. Take some time to rest, as well. In fact, I think the two of you should have a good, old-fashioned lie-in today."

Draco chokes on his toast, spraying crumbs everywhere.

Harry reaches out and claps him soundly on the back. He coughs and splutters, shooting daggers at his mother with his gaze through each hacking breath.

"I don't think she meant together," Harry chuckles.

Narcissa rubs a hand over Draco's arm. "Of course not."

Draco sits back and inhales a cleansing breath before downing a gulp of water. "That's not what—I didn't—oh, bugger off, Potter." He shakes off Harry's touch with a violent shudder.

Narcissa tsks under her breath at her son's language, but Harry simply smiles at her. "I don't think you'd be up for it anyway," He grins at Narcissa. "I'm a cuddler."

Wide gray eyes meet his and Draco's mouth falls open to reply with something snarky, Harry's sure of it, when Narcissa replies from behind the rim of her tea cup. "So is Draco."

The teasing from his mother has to be the last straw, because Draco's head whips around to seethe, _"Merlin, Mother!"_ at her with the most indignant of hisses. He pushes back from the table with a jerk and throws his napkin into his plate with a huff. "If you'll excuse me, I'm expecting a firecall from Switzerland this morning. A business associate is sending over some contracts that need to be signed. I'll be busy well into the evening, so don't bother calling me for dinner." He glares at his mother once more before turning to Harry and inclining his head. "Harry."

"Draco," Harry parrots, a tiny smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

With that, Draco is gone, and Harry can't resist the bubble of laughter that escapes when the doors are slammed shut behind the retreating blond.

"I suppose I shouldn't tease him."

Narcissa waves a hand. "Draco's always had a hard time not taking himself too seriously. He's much better than he used to be." Her eyes glint in the streams of sunlight cascading in through the windows. "He interests you," she says. "Draco."

"Yes." There's so much more to it than that, but Harry can't find the words.

"That's good, because my son is interesting. There's more to him than a handsome face."

Harry sips his coffee, and decides now that he's admitted to himself, there's no point in trying to hide it from Narcissa. "You're right, but I won't deny that I find him very attractive. In many ways."

"Because of the kind of man he is?" It's a loaded question, and now Harry has absolutely no doubt that Narcissa knows not only exactly what kind of man her son is, but what kind of man Harry is as well. There's no judgment in her tone; she asks the question as if it's a point of fact. As if his and Draco's sexual inclinations are as mundane as discussing the weather.

And it's with a clear and pointed honesty that Harry looks Narcissa right in the eye and replies, "Because of the man he's become."

It's clearly the right thing to say because Narcissa's face glows with approval. The fact that it's the absolute truth is simply par for the course. But she's slightly hesitant, if the miniscule tremble to her fingers is anything to by. He's good enough at this to know whatever's happened in Draco's immediate past (Switzerland) gives her reason to worry. Harry feels compelled to take his honesty one step further. "I don't know about Draco's previous relationships, but I think you should know that have no plans to hurt him. Now, or in the future. Even if we become nothing more than friends."

"I know," she says with a wry smile, "because if you did, you wouldn't have lasted the night."

Her well-schooled expression makes him shiver beneath his skin, and he's reminded that sitting across from him is a woman who is most likely the greatest Occlumens of any recorded age. A woman by virtue of her own cunning skill managed to elude taking the Mark, kept her true feelings hidden from both her husband and the Dark Lord, harbored said Dark Lord under her roof, and lied to his face without breaking a sweat. Killing Harry in his sleep has got to be a parlor trick.

"Am I to take that as encouragement?"

"If you like." That's as close to an endorsement as he's going to get for the moment, but it blossoms in his heart all the same.

The tapping at the window breaks the mood as Blinky pops in to let open it for the fluffy gray owl. It immediately settles on Blinky's arm and she trots it over to Narcissa. Her eyes widen in surprise as she examines the outstretched leg. "It's from your Mr. Longbottom. I didn't expect to hear anything so quickly."

"I firecalled him this morning. Nev said he'd send something over."

"Well, I'll take this into my study and see if a reply is necessary." She places her napkin on the table and rises slowly. "Blinky, would take the owl, please?" Harry follows in deference as Blinky hops out of the room.

"Please sit, enjoy your breakfast. I presume I will see _you_ at dinner, if not my son," she says smiling.

"I wouldn't miss it. And I'll talk to Draco. Let him know that we're not actually conspiring against him."

"Yes, but don't draw too much attention to it. You'll do more harm than good."

"Noted."

She turns with a rustle of skirts, and all of a sudden Harry feels an emptiness in his chest the farther away she moves. It's a little thing, this want that has unfurled inside him, something easily pushed aside, but he finds he can't bear to squash it.

"Narcissa?"

"Yes?" She stops and looks back, and he could stare into the acceptance he sees in her eyes forever.

Harry opens his arms. "Would you mind?"

She's in his arms in an instant, enfolding him in sweet jasmine and crinkly silk. Her hand is pressed to the top of his back, right between his shoulder blades. It's so comforting, so warm, this different fire that she incites to burn inside him.

"You must think me rather silly, I suppose, asking for a hug in broad daylight," he murmurs into her hair. "I don't think I ever asked for a hug before. They've always been sort of given to me." He pulls back to see the beginnings of tears in her eyes. Happy ones, he surmises, based on the brightness glimmering there. "I hope Draco doesn't think I'm trying to steal you away from him or some such nonsense."

"My son is wiser than he seems." Her breath is soft in the air between them. "Don't let it worry you. A mother's love is the foundation on which all confident men are bred." Her hand cups his cheek, and Harry leans into it, leans into the raw affection he feels there. "And I have enough love for the both of you, whenever you require it."

"Thank you." It's inadequate, but it's heartfelt.

"You're more than welcome. Enjoy your afternoon, Harry."

Harry watches her go, head held high, with smooth, gliding steps. He can still feel her warmth, just like he can feel the Manor's magic wrapped around his knees. It's determined to ground him here, to brand him into this place, to make him a part of it. He wonders if he should feel guilty about the way he's responding to Narcissa Malfoy. He wonders if it's an insult to his own mother. Somehow, Harry has the feeling that if everything had happened in the opposite direction, he'd be watching Lily Potter mother Draco Malfoy.

The magic pinning him to the floor thrums in agreement.


End file.
